


The Perfect Day

by Janissa11



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:19:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nick changes the oil, orders a pizza, and has a really and truly perfect day. Really. Timeline: late season five, pre-GD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Day

He blinked at the sunlight trickling through the blinds, and thought, I'm not gonna do jack today.

Even the sheets seemed softer. God, he loved his bed. So comfortable. Could stay here all day if he wanted. Sleep, or just lie around. Read a book. How long since he'd read something for fun? Just entertainment? Way too long. Yeah, read. Or just lie here and think about nothing.

He closed his eyes and yawned and stretched, and thought, I need to change the oil in the truck.

Which would involve getting out of bed. But he'd already slept, what? He glanced at the clock and raised his eyebrows. Huh. Twelve hours, give or take a few minutes. Wow. Musta been tired.

The Burns case, and the stupid way Warrick had to mention the promotion-that-hadn't-happened, even though, well, he didn't MEAN it in any, you know, mean way, just still, ugh, don't remind me, bro, what a fuck-up, and then Grissom looking up and smiling, quick wave like hey, you still work here? And looking back down, glasses a little crooked on his nose, and Greg snapping him out of his reverie by screaming down the hallway about how he got those tickets and do NOT make plans on the 15th, or so help me god I will hunt you down and pull your nuts off using the little-known nasal route, Stokes.

Just thinking about all of it made him want to curl up and go back to sleep. Fine, the concert would be great, he'd keep the 15th free and make a bet with himself what color Greg's shirt would be, and maybe what color Greg's HAIR would be, although lately it had been a disappointingly normal shade of brownish-blond. And he'd wrap up the Burns shit, even if he thought Abrams was a dickhead who'd kissed the chief's ass to make detective in the first place and wouldn't know a hunch if it walked up and bit his right nipple off.

And Grissom, oh fuck he wasn't going there today. Not TODAY. Not when it was perfect, and he was fancy-free, sun shining and birds singing and not a care in the fucking WORLD.

No. Today, unlike most days, was going to be a Grissom-free day. No time spent mooning about the tilted glasses and the funny little pursing of his lips when he was thinking, or ANYTHING.

Nope. Today he was going to have a blissful, carefree, work-free, GRISSOM-free day.

He threw the covers back and sat up, reaching to rub his hair. Felt like it would give Greg a run for his money today. All right. Breakfast, run, shower, truck, gym, and pizza. Probably another shower in there, someplace.

No people. No work.

No Grissom.

Awesome.

* * *

It worked until he got his toast out and discovered he was wondering what Grissom ate for breakfast.

"Oh, no," he muttered, shaking his head. "No way, nuh-UH, no-how."

Besides, he already knew that one. Grapefruit and toast when he decided he wanted to be healthy; eggs over easy and sausage patties -– never link, who knew why -– and toast and hash browns. And marmalade, never jelly. Seen him eat that a few times. So forget it.

He ate his own breakfast (toast with strawberry jam and NEARLY finished with that godawful disgusting maple-flavored protein powder he got, damn, enough to put a guy off pancakes for the rest of his LIFE), and changed into his running shoes, put on shorts and a tee shirt and stuck his key in his shoe, and headed out.

And holy SHIT, but it was a fantastic day. Perfect. Dry and cool, one of those perfect mornings where the desert smelled like expensive perfume, something spicy and elusive and delicious, and every breath felt like pure therapy. Good for what ails you. He breathed out the stress and inhaled the scent, and grinned and waved when he passed the super carrying that rusty old toolbox. Hey, at least he wasn't headed for Nick's place. The super didn't wave back, but that was okay. No problemo.

His usual route took him down the street four blocks, zigzag past the Stop-n-Go, down Laredo and across to Upland, two blocks and the park. Somebody he felt he would like very much if he ever met them had arranged to have the path paved with nice springy track, and today he'd have kissed whoever it was right on the smacker, because it was really nice, really so much better than the rutted old path where he'd taken a dive two years ago. Bruised his ego more than his body, but still. Hated falls. Hated 'em.

He felt the burn a block from the park, but it was gone when he hit the path, just the buzz of endorphins, surging through his veins like hot sweet wine, and there were scads of people around soaking up the too-awesome weather. Kids with dogs, or kites, or just running around like they'd just taken a hit of something filled with amphetamines, screaming and laughing and having a hell of a good time. Parents with cardboard cups of coffee from the Starbuck's on Bradley, fish-pale legs under wrinkled shorts they'd hauled out this morning. Runners, at least a dozen, and he waved at the regulars, caught their stoned-looking grins and knew it wasn't just him. It was a GOOD day. Freaking GREAT.

_Wonder what Grissom's doing._

He stumbled over a fallen branch, and blew a fast breath, shaking his head. Find your stride, Stokes, find that groove. And no GRISSOM.

_Probably sleeping. Hell, probably just got off work._ Driving home, maybe getting a cappuccino like the folks in the park. With cinnamon. Grissom was partial to cinna –

Fuck.

He stopped after his first full lap, leaned over and just breathed for a while, watching some guys set up for a softball game. Sounded good. Real good. Been too long since he'd done the league thing, played every damn weekend and loved every second of it. But his schedule changed, and Joe Parkins moved to Reno, and the thing just kind of fell apart last summer. Nobody'd tried to put it back together again.

He swung his arms, stretched a little. A huge golden Lab came up to say hello, and Nick grinned and rubbed the furry ears. "Hey, buddy," he said easily. "Just can't get enough of this day, either, can ya?"

Someone whistled, and the Lab perked up his ears, bounded away. Nick grinned after him, and started his second lap.

* * *

When he went to his car to drive to the gym, he saw the clouds. Dark, purple and gray and spots of near-black, huddled on the western horizon. He shaded his eyes to gaze at it, and whispered, "Aw, not YET."

Crap.

The gym would take a couple of hours. Then the truck, at least half an hour, maybe longer. Could always go to the Jiffy Lube.

No. Truck, then gym. He was definitely not changing the oil while it was raining.

Back in the house to change clothes, and man, he could feel it slipping. The good feeling, the wow, this is a GOOD day feeling. Slipping like a bar of soap squirting out of his hand. He put on jeans and his oldest A&amp;M sweatshirt, and grabbed his tools before ducking back outside.

He had most of the old grotty oil drained (changed this crap three months ago, what the fuck?) when the first raindrops hit.

"Damn it," he sighed, scooting out from under the truck and getting a splat of rain in his left eye. "Figures."

By the time he finished up, he was soaked, and the sweatshirt was clinging to his body like ice-cold glue. He didn't hurry. Already wet, not gonna get any wetter, and besides, water in the oil tank would be a pain in the ass.

But inside, he was hit with a major case of the shivers, so he shucked out of his wet clothes and headed for the shower. And in the midst of thawing under nearly straight hot water, he tried to keep soap out of his eyes and thought, Now he's awake.

The subsequent sting of Dove on his corneas was probably a justifiable punishment, he thought dimly, wiping frantically and then sticking his face under the water.

But there was no question that the zest had gone out of the day. Perfect for a while, maybe. Definitely less than perfect now. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, and listened to the thunder. Great, you know, it's not safe to shower in a thunderstorm, Nick-eee. Lucky you didn't get your ass zapped to kingdom come.

He toweled his hair dry and winced when a clap of thunder rattled the windows.

* * *

About the time he called for a pizza, he figured out the day had just really gone to hell.

"Right, 8110 Mesquite. #23." He tapped his pencil and thought about how you weren't supposed to make phone calls during thunderstorms, either. "Right. Listen, man, I order from you like, twice a week. You mean y'all don't have some kind of automated –" He sighed. "Yeah, I'll hold."

While he waited for either the pizza person to come back or lightning to kill him by zapping him through his eardrum, he thought, It's 4:00. Grissom's probably taking a shower.

Oh, enough with THAT shit already, Stokes. You're as moony as a 12-year-old girl. Grow up, get OVER it already, and move along. It's not like HE'S gonna ever –

"Yeah. Large with everything. Except anchovies." He waited. "Right. Large. No anchovies. Oh, and no peppers. Or mushrooms. Yeah. I don't really care, um, thin. Yeah. No anchovies, mushrooms, or peppers. Or onions, no onions. No, I know that pretty much means it's not a pizza with EVERYTHING, but -- No. No, I said thin, not thick. No, you know what? Put some pepperoni on it and I'll be happy. NOTHING ELSE! Right. But extra cheese. Yeah. Pepperoni and extra cheese. And sauce."

Ten minutes later, he hung up the phone and studied his broken pencil, before going to the fridge to hunt down a beer. Christ, he really needed one now.

_Bet Grissom didn't have any trouble ordering a pizza. Just said it, cool and precise, clear as a bell. Exactly what he wanted, no hesitation, nothing._

He looked at his reflection in the microwave door. "You," he told his reflection, "are a pre-adolescent GIRL. You are. Face it."

Pulling on the beer, he trudged into the living room to wait for his food.

* * *

The pizza wasn't very hot. And they'd put peppers on it. He laid a slice on a plate and sighed, and began picking the green pieces out. He'd been very clear, hadn't he? Nothing else. Peppers weren't nothing. Didn't LIKE peppers.

Outside, the rain was torrential: a real down-home classic gully-washer. Great for sitting around the house. Except sitting around the house alone, with nothing to do, wasn't really all that great.

He took a bite of pizza and thought guiltily about not going to the gym. Might as well smear this pizza right on your ASS, Stokes, because at this rate you're gonna look like Dom Deluise by next week.

He sighed and took another bite. Missed some of the peppers. Sneaky little fuckers.

_Grissom probably didn't eat pizza away from the lab. Probably sitting down now to some kind of cordon-bleu extravaganza. Something, like, lamb, or veal. And a salad, and some steamed veggies. And a glass of wine._

He chewed morosely and glared at the lightning outside the window. Fucking lousy godawful day, and that was all there was to it.

_Like, a cream sauce. Veal piccolo. No, pic – pic --_

Whatever. Better than THIS shit.

He made himself finish a second slice, and closed the box. At least the beer tasted good.

Flipping through channels on the tv, and the power flickered.

Nick's lip curled. "Aw, FUCK," he groaned.

He'd just flipped to something ocean-y on the Learning Channel when the power stopped dicking around and quit completely.

"Great," Nick whispered in the darkness. Lightning flickered, setting the furniture off in high, weird relief.

He'd just found the flashlight and managed to bump his head AND stub his toe when his cell phone rang. At least the power hadn't gone out on that, right? Silver lining.

He fished the phone out of his gym bag and barked, "Stokes."

"Nick?"

He dropped the flashlight. "I – Yeah. Yeah. Grissom?"

"Nick, can you rue me a savor?"

"What? Where are you? Sounds like you're underwater."

"I said, can you DO ME A FAVOR?" Grissom bellowed. "Sorry, it's really loud under here!"

"Under where?" Nick shouted.

"An omofash!"

"A WHAT?"

"AN OVERPASS!"

"OVERPASS?"

"RIGHT! MY ROCK FRIED!"

Nick blinked several times and gripped the phone tightly. "Your rock?"

"MY TRUCK!"

"FRIED?"

"DIED! DEE, AS IN DEATH! D-I-E-D, DIED!"

"Oh."

"Can you forget me?"

Nick sat down hard on the couch, bouncing a little. "Huh?"

"Good grief. CAN YOU COME GET ME?"

"Oh. Oh, sure I can, man."

"DO THE CAN CAN?"

"I SAID YES I CAN!"

"GOOD! I'm at the ovowhish on skreek peek!"

"WHERE?"

"SPRING! SPRING STREET! OVERPASS!"

Deafening thunder made him jump, and he yelled hastily, "BE THERE IN TEN!"

"WHAT ABOUT SIN?"

"TEN MINUTES!" Nick screamed, and yanked the phone away from his ear when static screamed back.

His head was ringing. More thunder, and he jumped like someone had goosed him, and went to get his slicker.

* * *

Slightly over ten minutes later -– well, thirty -– he approached the Spring Street overpass. At the corner he sat very still, straining to see through the wipers.

What Grissom hadn't said -– or bellowed at the top of his lungs -– was that he was in the middle of a flood. A serious, real flood.

No veal pizzicato for Grissom tonight, evidently. Bet a pizza would have been just fine. Even one with peppers.

"Well, shit," Nick said clearly, and got out of the truck.

He got rope from the kit in the back of the truck, and wiped rain off his face, only to have more smack into him at 30 mph when he closed the back. Grissom was a careful driver; how'd he get into this mess? Then again, it was raining cats and dogs. More like bears and sheep, man, it was fucking POURING. SHEETING down.

He slogged through the intersection and over to the curb, wading down the block. Spring Street was notorious for flooding; what the fuck was Grissom thinking?

Speaking of Grissom, where the hell was he? Surely he had waited, didn't make Nick get out in this shit for no good –

He stopped short. "Oh, crap," he whispered.

Grissom waved from the top of the truck. "OVER HERE!" he bellowed.

The truck, in water halfway up the windows. And Grissom perched on the roof, looking wet and cold and not nearly as scared as Nick was damn sure HE would be, were their positions reversed.

"Shit," Nick moaned, and slogged forward again. There were people standing on the other side of the street, gawking, but nothing like rescue vehicles. And Grissom wasn't alone, either; Nick could see someone else stuck a few yards downstream, as it were, some guy also on the roof of his car, which was pretty much all underwater now.

"I CALLED 911!" Grissom screamed at him, standing up and wobbling when the seething waters buffeted the truck. "THEY SHOULD BE HERE SOON!"

Looking at the water lapping at Grissom's loafer-clad feet, Nick realized, with a sharp icy shock, that unless they got here in the next five minutes, the guy was gonna be swimming. And you didn't swim in water like that.

You drowned.

"Shit," Nick whispered, glancing frantically around him. Nothing, nada, zip in the way of anchors. A lamp post. Looked like a toothpick. And if he tried to swim it he'd just be in the same boat as Gil and the other guy. No pun intended.

What would Grissom do? If it were Nick out there?

Be really calm, for starters. Nick drew a fast, deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. There. Calm. Okay. NOW what?

"DON'T DO ANYTHING!" Grissom shouted. "JUST WAIT FOR THE RESCUE!"

Water was level with the top of the truck's windows now. Nick nodded, and thought, You won't last that long, Gil. And I'm damned if I'm watching you get washed away and smashed into a light post or something while I stand here with my fucking THUMB up my ass.

"HEY!" the other guy yelled. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!"

"Get a bigger car," Nick muttered, "and wait your turn."

He glanced up at the overpass.

Well. Possible. He'd done a lot of rappelling. Take a few minutes to beat it up there, and then he might just reach Gil before –

Something low and metallic let out a screech, and Nick's eyes darted back in time to see Grissom's Denali lurch, tilt, and settle again. Gil flailed and sat down hard, visibly gripping the edge of the roof with everything he had. He didn't look calm anymore. Not even slightly.

"Oh, fuck," Nick whimpered, and tied the rope around the lamp post. The other end went around his waist.

He was already soaking wet, so the water didn't feel all that much colder, but the current blew his mind. Felt like a living thing, the water, grabbing and tugging at him. How far was Gil? Maybe ten, twelve feet? It looked like an Atlantic crossing from here.

He took a deep breath and surged forward. Silty brown water smacked him in the face and he felt one of his shoes come off. The slicker was just dragging with the speed of the water, and he let it slide off, didn't watch it go careening down what was now the Spring Street river.

"NICK! DON'T DO IT!" Grissom screamed. Kneeling, water splashing high enough to completely soak him. His face was contorted, and then Nick's eyes were blurred with dirty ice-cold water.

Well, it wasn't THAT deep. If he could just keep his feet –-

He swallowed a big mouthful of nasty water, and spat. Gahhhh.

But it wasn't that far. And he had a good grip. Worked out hard enough for it. Good damn thing he hadn't gone to the gym today. Last thing he'd need was to be tired BEFORE he got this particular workout.

"GRAB ONTO ME!" he shouted, and coughed on a mouthful of water. "I'M OKAY! I'LL PULL YOU OUT!"

"THIS IS INSANE!" Gil bellowed, but he was on the edge of the dangerously rocking truck now. Oh Christ, about to tip over. Grissom was the only thing keeping the water from just rolling that truck like a toy.

He couldn't go any farther. Any farther, and he'd be swept away, too. Here at least he had the slope to stand on – out there? Nothing.

Two feet. That was all.

"JUMP!" Nick screamed, holding out his arms. "DO IT, MAN, YOU'RE ABOUT TO ROLL!"

Gil's mouth tightened, and he jumped.

* * *

The rescue crews arrived ten minutes later. The other guy was still hanging in, but that had been just too far; Nick thought later on that it was lucky enough, catching Gil and managing to hang ONTO him long enough for him to grab on. The other guy, well, he made it. And that was what counted, right?

He looked over at Gil, swaddled in a dark gray blanket, and shook his head. "Hey, look," Nick said hoarsely. "It's stopped raining."

Gil nodded slowly. "So it has." He resumed his mournful stare at the Denali's barely visible tires over the swirling brown water. It had gone over seconds after Gil's spectacular leap into Nick's arms.

Nick shifted. "It's just a truck, man. It's replaceable."

"A NEW truck," Gil said gloomily.

"So how'd you get caught in this shit anyway?"

A very odd expression came and went over Gil's features, replaced by gloom once more. "I wasn't paying attention," he said shortly.

"To THIS?" Nick stared at him. "Kinda hard to miss, don't –-"

"I was preoccupied," Gil interrupted, tugging the blanket closer around his shoulders. "And it was stupid. Very -– stupid."

Well, yeah, Nick thought, but didn't even come close to saying it out loud. Out loud he said, "Hey, man, shit happens. Nice jump, by the way."

A whisper of a smile tilted Gil's lips. "Thank you."

"When you grabbed my belt I thought you were gonna pull my damn pants off." Nick snickered.

And stopped snickering, when Gil's face went unmistakably rosy. "Sorry," he muttered, and stared fixedly at the rescue guys bundling up the other driver.

"Not a problem," Nick said hastily. "Just, you know. Good grip."

Gil didn't reply.

"So. You wanna go home?"

"Yes," Gil said.

"All right then."

A block away, Gil said suddenly, "My house."

Nick looked at him. "Huh?"

"My neighborhood. It'll be flooded, too."

"Oh." Nick chewed on his lower lip. "Bad?"

"Not up to the townhouse, no. But the streets."

Nick patted the steering wheel. "Hey, this bad boy's up to the challenge."

A dour look. "So you think now," Gil said meaningfully.

"Oh."

"Damn it."

"So. We'll stop off at my place. High and dry, man. Well, high. Not very dry. Rain. And stuff." He bit down hard on his lip.

Gil gave a weary nod. "Your place, it is."

Wishing he had Gil's blanket, Nick nodded and put the truck back in first.

* * *

He was a good host. Everyone always said he was. And he did his best here, too, assuring Gil that yes, he could grab the first shower, no problem, here's the towels and here's some sweats and a sweatshirt, and hoping like hell Gil could wear them, because they weren't really at all the same size.

When he heard the shower go on, he let himself start shivering. Oh, damn, it was fucking freezing in here. He peeled off the wet stuff, stumbling his way into his bedroom, and grabbed one of the extra towels before climbing into the sweats he KNEW were too small for Gil to wear.

Sometime around putting on his socks and thinking about how he'd just be taking it all off again to have HIS shower, he started thinking it was sort of funny.

Because, well, not REALLY funny, but yeah. Because that was the kind of scrape that NICK would get into, not Gil Grissom. But Nick was at home, an electricity-free home at the time, but warm and dry, and it had been GRISSOM who got stuck. Whose truck was now a really expensive roadblock in the middle of the street.

He stuck his feet in his slippers and giggled. Shoe's on the other foot, Griss, and the giggle became an outright laugh. And by the time Gil opened the bathroom door and emerged, hair wet (still, but clean this time) and the sweats a little snug but not that bad, Nick was lying back on the bed with tears rolling down his face, stomach CLENCHING he was laughing so hard.

When he finally got a hold of himself, he saw Gil, standing there watching him. Calm Sphinx look in place, just a tiny twinkle in his eye to say he got the joke.

"Sorry," Nick gasped, wiping his eyes. "Suh –- Sometimes you juh -– You just gotta laugh."

Gil's face went stony. "You have any coffee?"

Nick wheezed, and nodded. "Yeah." He rolled off the bed and stood up, hiccuping a couple of times. "Lemme make some."

Gil followed him back through the living area, padding into the kitchen. "Show me where it is. You go take a shower. There should be hot water left."

Nick nodded, and shivered. "G-good."

Gil frowned and his hand twitched, as if he was about to reach out and stopped himself. "You're shivering, Nick," he said thinly.

"M'okay," Nick chattered. "Just cold."

Something unreadable came and went on Gil's face, and he turned to the coffee. "Well, go warm up in the shower."

"Okay," Nick whispered.

* * *

Hot water helped. Hot CLEAN water, thank God. Nick felt the grit in his hair and made a face. Well, at least Gil had rinsed out the tub. Pretty considerate of him, actually.

Gil. Here in his condo. Wearing his CLOTHES, for God's sake.

Guess he didn't have to wonder what Grissom was doing tonight, hmm?

He shivered with something not at all related to cold, and started rinsing the crap out of his hair.

When he padded out of the bathroom he was warm enough not to need the sweatshirt he'd grabbed, although he put the pants on for decency's sake. The house smelled like coffee, and he made a beeline for the kitchen.

Gil stood at the sink, hip leaning against the counter, face blank as pavement while he drank his coffee. Nick produced an experimental smile, walking over to grab a mug from the cabinet. "Better?" he asked.

Gil's eyes regarded him expressionlessly over the rim of his cup. "Much."

"Good. You want some sugar or something?"

Gil blinked, and shook his head. "This is fine. Thanks."

"Cool." Nick dumped some sugar in his own cup, and thought about getting out the milk but decided if Gil drank it black, he could at least do the same. Sorta black. Sweet black.

Whatever. He shook his head and took a deep swallow of coffee. Stronger than he made it. Figured. "Want something to eat?"

Gil paused, then shrugged. "Sure. That sounds good."

"Okay, I got pizza. Could warm it up." Nick pursed his lips. "Or I could cook something. Doesn't matter. Could make tacos. I think I got every –"

"Pizza's fine," Gil interrupted with a small, faintly sad smile. "Perfect."

With a lingering look, Nick nodded. "Okay. Lemme stick it in the oven for a minute."

He got the pizza in the oven, and awkwardness made him blurt, "You want a beer? Some bourbon?"

Gil set his empty coffee cup in the sink. "Beer, yeah. Sounds good."

Nick handed him a bottle and took one for himself -– mmm, coffee and beer, what a combo -– and made an anxious little gesture. "So man, have a seat, take a load off. You gotta be tired."

Gil nodded slowly. "Guess I am."

Feeling vaguely like a shepherd, Nick sort of urged Gil into the living room, where he sat down on the couch with a gusty sigh. Nick sat on the edge of the armchair and took a sip from his bottle. "Better?"

Gil's eyelids flickered. "Much."

Guy looked done in. No wonder, right? Hell of a way to spend the afternoon.

The hollow in Gil's throat made him look absurdly vulnerable. Something lurched in Nick's chest, something weird and hot and – what, protective? Yeah.

The lurch became a tight, hard knot. Gil could have died this afternoon. People died in flash floods. People got trapped in their cars, or swept away, and they fucking drowned and fucking DIED.

His throat produced a thick little glurk of shock, and he gripped his beer bottle more tightly. Ohshit. Died, Gil Grissom could have bought it, right there in front of him.

Staring at Gil's closed eyes, he considered it, and shuddered.

The eyes opened. Clearly, Gil said, "You saved my life today, Nick."

Nick blinked and his throat made another funny sound when he swallowed. "Just helping out," he whispered weakly.

Gil shook his head slowly, sitting up. "No. That truck was doing the Watusi underneath me. You were right; there wasn't enough time to wait for search and rescue. If I had -–" He broke off and gave an eloquent shrug. "I'm not an exceptionally strong swimmer. Lucky for me, you are."

His face felt as if he'd stuck it in the oven along with the pizza. It was very hard to meet Gil's blue eyes, and equally impossible not to. "Wasn't just gonna leave you out there, man," he mumbled. "No way."

"I'm thankful for that." Gil's mouth curved in a faint, sad smile. "Although I am sorry about the truck."

"Nice truck."

"It was. Very nice."

"So what really happened?" Nick asked without thinking.

Gil's throat worked when he swallowed. His gaze dropped to study the beer bottle in his hands. "I was careless," he said softly. "My mind was elsewhere."

"Where?"

"Things."

"Oh." Nick nodded slowly. "I was surprised. You know. That it was me you called."

Another smile, tiny and warm as bright sunshine. "You were the first person I thought of," Gil said softly.

His face went hot again, this time from a rush of huge, absurd pleasure. "Wow," Nick managed. "Cool."

"It started out such a beautiful day, too."

"It did. Gorgeous. Went for a run."

Gil's eyebrow lifted. "Did you? Good day for it. I should start running again. There never seems to be enough time in the day."

Nick licked his lower lip carefully. "I know what you mean."

"I suppose you do."

"I should -– check on the pizza."

He took his beer with him back into the kitchen. And what the fuck was this? He wasn't cold at all, but his hands were shaking. And Gil's even, gentle voice echoing in his ringing ears. First person I thought of.

That, he thought unsteadily, is pretty much the nicest thing Gil Grissom has ever said to me.

Guess saving someone's life has its perks, huh?

But while he got out a hot pad and reached into the oven, he knew it didn't feel like something Gil felt he was owed. Just -– nice. Really honestly nice.

"I'll get some plates," Gil said behind him, and Nick flinched.

"Yeah," he managed, just catching the pizza before it flipped over back into the oven. "That'd be good."

* * *

The pizza tasted a lot better now. Maybe it was just that he was starving, and it was food. Maybe it was that he'd had a hell of an adventure, and he was pretty tired and used up all his reserves.

Maybe it was the company.

Chewing a pepper and not minding it at all, he thought it was probably all three, but mostly the last.

Gil ate with his usual single-minded focus, using a knife and fork while Nick just grabbed and ate. Two slices, and Nick got them fresh beers to go with the second helpings. Just about killed the beer, but he had bourbon if they really wanted something else later. And there was probably some Jaegermeister left from when Warrick was over two weekends ago. Not much, but a little.

Finally the pizza was gone, and Nick was pleasantly full. Comfortable: warm and all set. Which was when it occurred to him.

"You think your street's not flooded now?" he asked.

Gil tilted his bottle for the last swallow of beer. "Probably. It generally drains off fairly fast, although this was a lot of rain. Three inches at least."

"Felt like we should be looking around for Noah."

A smile. "I agree."

Nick sat up and put his napkin on his plate. "I can take you home if you want," he said awkwardly.

"I'll help you clean up first."

Didn't take much. Between the two of them they got the plates rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, and the pizza box sat by the trash, waiting for Nick's next trip to the dumpster. Beer bottles in the bin by the fridge. Wipe the counters, done.

"What time is it?" Gil asked a little hoarsely.

Nick glanced at the clock over the sink. "Nearly ten. Wow. Later than I thought."

"Nick, I really don't know how to thank you." The tension in Gil's voice whipped Nick's head around, to stare at him. A weird, miserable expression had formed on Gil's normally hard-to-read features. "I wish I could -- That was remarkable, what you did out there. Really remarkable."

The stark unhappiness on his face was too strange. Without planning it at all Nick blurted, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." A fast, fake smile. "It's been a long day."

"Bullshit," Nick whispered, and Gil's eyes narrowed, meeting his own squarely. "That's not it, is it?"

"I'd rather not discuss it," came Gil's stiff reply.

"Okay." Nick nodded slowly. "But I mean, you can. If you want. I'm right here, man. Not going anyplace."

Stiffness morphed into another shade of the same unhappy color. "No," Gil said softly. "I don't think I can."

His mouth felt dry all of a sudden. "Just say it," Nick replied, hearing the words echo a little, as if someone else had said them. "How bad can it be?"

"It's not bad. Just -– unfortunate."

It was quiet, and calm, and Nick couldn't imagine hearing more regret, more outright sadness, anywhere. A lurch of real alarm clutched his belly. "What?" he whispered. "Jesus, Gil, what in God's --"

"This afternoon." All the color had drained from Gil's face; he looked pale as parchment, a little sick. But his voice was level, as composed as if he were delivering a case report to a jury. "I knew better than to drive Spring Street in the rain. But I was thinking about other things."

Nick swallowed. "What were you thinking about?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Absolutely unsure, Nick made himself nod. His heart was actually beating too fast. Bizarre. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I do."

"You," Gil replied in the same calm voice. "I was thinking about you."

Nick swallowed again. "Me?" he managed, in a helium-squeaky voice.

Gil nodded slowly. The color was coming back to his cheeks, appearing as faint uneven red blotches. With a sharp, amazed sense of shock, Nick realized he was blushing again. Gil Grissom, turning red. Twice in one day. "And so I sat at the corner of Spring and 14th, and I didn't pay attention to the rain." He gave a short cough of a laugh. "Hell, I'm not sure I even noticed it was raining. My mind -– was elsewhere."

"On me," Nick whispered, disbelieving.

"And finally I thought, I can't sit here all day, I have things I need to do. And when it's not raining, Spring Street is my usual route home." Gil shrugged, a one-sided jerk of his shoulder. The pink splotches were darker now. "And so when I saw the water, I thought -– if I thought anything at all -– that the Denali could handle it. I…was wrong."

His mouth wasn't dry any longer, but his heart was bumping along so fast it made him feel slightly dizzy. Or maybe that was just his brain, trying to keep up with events. "So you called me," Nick said unsteadily.

"You -– were on my mind."

"Wow."

Gil said nothing else for a moment, and then released a gusty sigh. "And now," he said in a thin, stretched kind of voice, "I think I need to go home."

Nodding absently, Nick said, "What were you thinking about me?"

A fast, sharp shake of Gil's head. "No."

Nick drew a deep breath. "Because," he said shakily, "it's funny, you know. I mean, because I was thinking about you. When you called."

Gil's head snapped up, eyes widening slightly. "You were?"

Nick nodded. The dizziness was worse now. Better. Crazily better. "I had that crappy pizza, you know? I was thinking, Bet Gil had veal pitatta for supper."

"Piccata," Gil murmured. He didn't blink. "Veal piccata."

"That's it, yeah." Nick nodded again, kept nodding. "I figured you were having something good and probably, you know. Fancy."

"I had a tuna sandwich for lunch. Not fancy."

"And then the power went off," Nick continued a little breathlessly. "And the phone rang. And it was you. And you were thinking about ME."

"I was," Gil agreed. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "What an odd coincidence."

"What were you thinking? Before the flood stuff."

"I was thinking," Gil said slowly, "that someday, somehow, I was going to work up the courage to talk to you."

"Talk to me?"

"Like this. Like we are now. Or at least I think we are."

"We're talking," Nick said, and swallowed. "I just -- I'm not sure, you know. What we're saying."

Gil uttered a shaky laugh. "I'm not, either. I know what I'd like to say."

"Then say it," Nick managed.

"I'd like to see you more. Spend more time with you."

His ears were ringing a little. Grabbing a gulp of air, Nick said, "That would be -– really cool."

"No, that isn't it." Gil frowned absently and cleared his throat. "No, what I mean to say is, I'd like to SEE you."

"Like -–"

"A date. I'd like to take you out."

Nick nodded jerkily. "A date," he said. "Dates are cool. Dates, yeah." Idiot. You sound like a seventh-grader. "I mean, I'd like that."

Gil sagged a little, but his intent blue gaze didn't waver. "Then -– that's a yes, right?"

"Yes," Nick said breathily. "It's a yes. Definitely."

"Thank God." Gil grinned suddenly, and Nick felt overwhelmed, joy like that entire bottle of Jaegermeister, downed the whole thing and it went straight to his head. "I was suddenly just absolutely sure you didn't mean that."

"I do mean it," Nick said, and laughed a little hysterically. "I do. I really do."

Gil wasn't standing very far away. Now he stepped closer, slowly, cautiously, and Nick thought he might fall over pretty soon from sheer brain overload. Something overload; his brain didn't seem to be working all that well.

"This," Gil said in a newly thin voice, "is truly not how I pictured this happening."

"You pictured it?"

Gil nodded. "Many times. You don't want to know how many times."

"Yes, I do," Nick said, smiling. "I'd love to know."

"Too many to count." Another step, and he was close enough to touch, close enough to -– "None of those scenarios," Gil continued, "went anything like today."

"Feels all right so far," Nick gasped.

"I was sitting there on the truck. And at that moment, all I was thinking was, How much more stupid could I possibly be? I got myself into it. It was my fault. And I felt the truck moving, I knew it was almost –-" He shook his head. "And then there you were. And I thought, if I get my sorry ass out of this, if NICK gets me out of this -– I'll tell him. Because there are no prizes for waiting."

Absurdly, his eyes were stinging. Never felt farther from crying in his life, more like shouting for pure unadulterated joy, but his eyes still felt gritty, and he blinked away the surprising tears and said, in a high, thin voice, "So would you stop waiting and go ahead and kiss me?"

Gil grinned, and took that final step and did just that.

* * *

Later, when he'd made a fire and hadn't taken Gil home after all, he said drowsily, "It's been a hell of a day."

Gil sighed, breath warm in Nick's hair. "I'll say. And it started out so well."

"I changed the oil in my truck."

"Industrious of you. I always have someone else do it."

"Gonna let someone else do it next time."

Gil's lips touched Nick's temple. "Good."

"I can't believe you nearly drowned."

"But I didn't. I called you instead."

Nick slid closer, pressing his face wonderingly against Gil's throat. "Thank God."

"You make a very good hero. All that was missing was your white hat."

"Woulda floated away in all that water anyway."

"What happened to your slicker?"

"I have no idea."

"It's probably in Carson City by now."

"Probably."

Gil's arm slid around him, pulling him closer. "Would you think I'm crazy," he said softly, "if I said it was a perfect day?"

Nick smiled against Gil's skin. "Rain and all?"

"Rain and all."

"Not crazy." Nick kissed the hollow of Gil's throat, and tasted salt. "Sounds pretty good to me. Especially the part after the water."

"Most especially that part, yes."

"Perfect, huh?"

"Pretty much."

"What about your truck?"

"The department will buy a new one."

"Good thing."

"Indeed."

Nick stirred, and pulled back enough to look into Gil's blue eyes. "You still want me to take you home?"

Gil smiled. "Do you want me to go?"

"Nope."

"Good."

And then Gil kissed him, and Nick thought, Yep, pretty damn perfect, before he decided that kissing Gil Grissom was much more interesting than thinking, and so he stopped.

 

END


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